


Cryptozoology for Beginners

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Loch Ness Monster, M/M, Talking Inanimate Objects
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he's not selling souvenirs and fishing bait to visitors to Loch Ness, James is busy helping people who need it via cryptic instructions from the inanimate objects that won't stop talking to him. Then Michael walks into his shop, and things get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Mcfassy Film AU Fest, using the TV series Wonderfalls for world-building inspiration. Many thanks to cynthia_black and capricornucopia!

James liked grey mornings, when thick fog blanketed the loch, obscuring the hills completely and leaving only the barest sliver of dark water visible beyond the shop door. Down at the jetty, the old pier disappeared into the mist after the first few weathered boards. Easy, on mornings like this, to imagine it a bridge to another world.

James would never be a natural early riser, but when all the groaning, stretching, and cursing were done - most days were greeted with a blow to the alarm clock and a "Fuck, it's morning" - he was happy to be the one to open up Killian's Bait, Tackle, Grocery, and Souvenir Shop (Postal Boxes and Fishing Licences Available Inside!). His world was never truly quiet anymore, but this was as close as he ever got, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea too large to fully wrap his hands around, looking out the window at the clouded day.

People came to Loch Ness for the fishing, the hiking, or for a glimpse of the supposed monster, but only the most hardcore came out on these impenetrable mornings. James thought the hardcore had it right, though. When the world wasn't aggressively pretending to be normal, when the clouds hadn't retreated to the sky, when the waterline was indistinct, amorphous, liable to be anywhere - that was the time for seeking. That was the time for finding.

Letting his eyes fall closed, James embraced the brief moment of peace. No sounds, no voices, no-one and nothing wanting a single thing from him.

The bell jangled at the shop door, and that was that.

The whispers began before the man even crossed the threshold. Little susurrations coming from objects that had no lungs and no way of taking in or expelling air. James had taught himself not to acknowledge such things when they tickled the edge of his hearing, because while it was possible he was only clinging to sanity by a fingernail these days, he still had a decently firm grasp on the illusion of it, and that was worth something.

The whispers were for his ears alone. They were always for his ears alone. There was an unusual current of excitement running through them today, and James’ stomach sank even as he smiled a greeting at his customer. The man had ducked his head to enter the shop - the doorway was as low and squat as the rest of the building - and was now looking up at the frame, as if checking to see just how narrow his escape had been.

"I'm good with concussions," James said. "If you happen to give yourself one on the way out."

He was, too. Someone had fallen on the road outside the shop once, and either James had been swift on the uptake that day, or the universe had been feeling less cryptic than usual, because when the happy little potato on the front of his bag of crisps had said, "Watch the road!" he hadn't needed telling twice. He’d been the first on the scene, able to help the lady out of harm's way before the next car had come along, and he’d followed the 999 operator's directions to the letter.

"That's comforting," the man said, flashing a grin like a virus, swift and infectious. James rubbed a thumb along his bottom lip and realised he was tracing his own smile, suddenly wider, and dropped his hand back to the mug before he could feel silly. But the man's sharp eyes had certainly tracked the movement, because he nodded towards the mug and said, "Do you sell coffee?"

“I do, but I can’t vouch for how good it is. The old fellows who come in here are only happy if it’s bitter enough to eat a hole in your stomach. I’ve got tea, though, fourteen kinds, your choice, and a very large kettle,” James said, lifting his mug in salute.

To the right of the cash register sat a small Nessie figurine, not grey or murky green like most of the ones James sold, but painted in a screamingly red tartan pattern. It began humming, volume ratcheting up with every second that it felt ignored, the tune something annoying and school-yardish that James didn't care to put a name to. He couldn't stop himself from wincing, although he smoothed that away in an instant, and controlled the urge to flip the little bugger face-down.

No visible reactions when there were people around to see. That was the rule.

“That sounds wonderful,” the man said, and James placed the accent properly, butter-soft and Irish, melting deliciously on the vowels. “I would love to see this selection of tea."

It was just behind him - all James had to do was say “turn around” - but instead he pushed through the swing gate and stepped out from behind the counter. “Over here,” he said, crooking a finger. James’ nerves shivered pleasantly as the man fell into step behind him; his mind must have been quietly storing up details all along, because James felt he knew without seeing the precise shape of him, every inch of his height, the places he was lean and the places he was broad and strong.

Ignoring the jumbo box of PG Tips entirely, the man focused on the row of glass jars behind it, tapping the lids as he considered each hand-scrawled label. Irish Breakfast, Scottish Breakfast, Earl Grey, Oolong, and Green Jasmine were all passed up in turn, and he came to a stop at the one that simply read _Tea_. “If it’s good enough to be ubiquitous, it’s good enough for me,” he said, scooping tea into the strainer with long, elegant fingers. "Name's Michael, by the way."

"James." He was careful not to raise his voice in response to the cacophony that suddenly assaulted his, and only his, ears. The tartan Nessie was back to humming, beating his tail against the countertop to keep time, and on the wall above the canisters of tea, a watercolour fish stuck its head out of its painting and began a throaty rendition of, "James and Michael, sitting in a tree...."

James busied himself with the kettle as a distraction technique. It was more productive and more sane than throwing things at a painted fish in an attempt to get it to dive underwater, although he had coins in his pocket and was sorely tempted. "Here for a spot of angling?" he asked Michael. "I sell live, dried, and artificial bait, anything you need to rip a fish out of its habitat." This last bit was said lightly, but the watercolour fish was smart enough to know a threat when it heard one, and belted up.

“No, not fishing.”

“Hiking?”

“Mm, yes, but more of an occupational hazard than an occupation in itself.” Michael leaned back against the counter, folding his arms, clearly waiting for James to work out the rest on his own. Like somehow he knew the best way to keep James’ interest was a challenge.

James cocked an eyebrow to indicate the challenge had been accepted, then set the tea to steeping, making a little show of not looking at Michael while he did so. It would be fun to spin round in a moment with the correct answer on his lips, and he liked his odds of making it happen. He thought about Michael's battered jeans, grey tee, and black leather jacket; he might have gone with the stereotype and said biker, but there'd been no rumble of a motorcycle earlier - if there had been, James probably would have gone out to have a look. He liked admiring other people's bikes almost as much as riding his own.

Occupation, Michael had said. James considered that, and let his mind linger on a few last remembered details: A faint red burn around Michael's neck exactly where a strap might have rubbed. The fact that his backpack was leather as well, not the far more common and less water-resistant canvas. The particular keenness of those grey-blue eyes.

James turned on his heel. "Photographer," he announced, and Michael laughed aloud, looking delighted.

"Top marks," he said. "My turn." Michael rubbed his chin. "Literature student, taking a term off from university?"

"You're wrong," James informed him gleefully, caught up in the moment. "Why literature?"

Michael pointed over James' shoulder. Following his gaze, James realised he'd spotted the novel James kept tucked to the left of the till. Michael said, "I can't make out the title from here, but that bloody massive thing said lit student to me."

"Oh, that." James crossed over to the till and held up the book for Michael to see. "It's _Anathem_. Neal Stephenson." It _was_ bloody massive, he'd been working on it almost as long as he'd been working at the shop. Four months now, give or take; he'd come in the dead of winter, and here it was almost May. James dropped it back on the counter with a thump and said, "Sometimes it's ages between customers." And sometimes the things that talked to James were actually quiet long enough to let him concentrate.

He felt like he was being watched by a hundred tiny eyes right now, but at least they were only watching.

"Perfect," Michael said. "Ages should give me time for a few more wrong guesses. Now let me see...."

Michael focused on James with an intensity that nearly knocked James sideways. He snatched up his abandoned mug and took a sip of cooled tea, glad to have a place to hide for a moment. His story - the whole story, talking inanimate objects and all - would be fascinating to a psychiatrist and horrifying to anyone else; the parts that he _could_ tell tended to come off as pathetic or selflessly altruistic depending on the listener, and both reactions left something twisting in James' gut.

He decided to get it over with quickly. "Count me one of the over-educated and underemployed - I have a philosophy degree and no idea what to do with it. Mr. Killian and my grandfather have been mates since they were boys, and when he bruised his hip I came up to lend a hand. That's me."

Michael's response was refreshing - he dropped his jaw in mock-indignation, making James laugh. "You only did that to secure your crown, didn't you? To be Mr. I Guessed Correctly And You Didn't? That’s cheating, that is. I'm onto you."

"What he means is, you're older than you look, and he likes it,” the tartan Nessie said, twisting its neck to wink up at James. 

By sheer strength of will, James refrained from knocking the damn thing to the floor. He turned his back on it instead, walking over to Michael. "Milk?" he asked, gesturing, and Michael blinked, looking wrong-footed at the sudden change of subject, or perhaps he’d simply forgotten he was brewing tea and it was time to start doing something about it.

"Yes, please," Michael said, and James passed over the pitcher. Considering how chilly the morning was, he could only have expected the same from Michael’s hands, but something starburst-warm shot through James in the brief moment when their fingers overlapped around the pitcher.

James knew he was smiling again, and this time, he thought Michael caught it from him, a grin that seemed to spread all the way back to his molars while he stirred his tea round and round.

"So what brings a man such as yourself here? Is it our glorious landscapes? Or are you hoping to catch sight of something a bit more mythological? Don't worry, you can tell me," James added. "I have literally heard everything."

"Ah, well, I never caught a leprechaun on camera in Ireland, not even when I was a boy and put a hell of a lot of effort into trying, so I don't fancy I'll be catching any prehistoric lizards here," Michael said. This did not go down well amongst the Nessies of James’ acquaintance; whether it was the tone of disbelief, the term ‘lizard’, or both, even the infant plush toys began lashing their tails. Blissfully unaware of the offence he’d caused, Michael continued, “But that sky out there, and those hills and that water... glorious is the right word.” Michael grinned. “Lucrative is another. You wouldn’t believe how much more you can get for a photograph if “Loch Ness” is in the caption.”

“Oh, I imagine I would,” James said, waving a hand at what he tended to refer to as the Wall of Tat. If it could be stamped, embroidered, painted, or molded, there was a Loch Ness Monster on it: baby bibs, salt and pepper shakers, coasters, plush animals, ceramic figurines, tote bags, umbrellas, toboggans, swimming towels, magnets, t-shirts, and a metric tonne of other rubbish James had to tidy on a regular basis.

That much was surely true of every shop worker in the area. James thought he was probably the only one who had to placate his inventory as well as keep it neatly stocked.

Most of the Nessies had simmered down by now, perhaps appeased by Michael acknowledging the beauty of their loch, but the babies were still fussing, wiggling their plump bodies and squeaking with unhappiness. James broke his rule and went over to them, stroking his fingers over their soft olive-green heads on pretence of straightening them on the shelf.

The objects in the shop didn't pay attention to everyone who came in, but they were certainly paying attention to Michael. They hadn't tried to give James any baffling commands yet, though, and that was starting to make him jumpy. If he was going to have to save Michael from a road accident, or a swarm of bees, or from strangling himself on his own camera strap, James needed to hear about it now. He needed to be certain he understood.

Michael had appeared at James’ elbow, and was regarding the Wall of Tat appraisingly. "I suppose you would know a thing or two about it," he said, waving at the shelves with his tea cup. "If I ever need a ten-pound spoon rest, I'll know where to come."

"The spoon rests are only £5.99."

"Even better," Michael said, smile creeping out as he tipped back his tea. The pause turned into a long moment of quiet, and James busied himself with rearranging a row of ceramic thimbles, alternating between thistle, tartan, and Nessie motifs. Michael would soon be finished with his tea, and he would pay James and go. Perhaps he wouldn't even stay that long - he was drinking from a disposable cup, after all. If the universe didn't have anything to say on the matter, chances were good James would never see him again. And if it _did_ , the next time their paths crossed Michael's life might very well be in James' hands.

James realised how hard he was biting his lip only when the sting set in after he stopped. 

Clearing his throat suddenly, Michael said, “I was wondering. My spare battery’s dead, and I thought I’d ask if I might charge it here? I’m staying in a tent, see, using campground facilities, and people have been fighting over outlets like mad. The ferocity is _astounding_.”

James laughed, feeling a bit lighter. “Yeah, of course, no problem. I’ll plug it up behind the counter, keep it safe.” He headed that way, Michael following - James was getting used to that already, the feel of Michael being right _there_ , with him wherever he went.

Michael rustled around in his backpack until he came up with an adapter, then snapped a battery into it. “Thank you very much indeed,” he said, laying it on the counter. “Will I have to explain to someone else that I’ve been stealing your electrical current when I come back, or are you the only one working today?”

“It’s me until noon. Then Mr. Killian until six, then I’m back until we close.”

“That's good to know,” Michael said. He shouldered his bag. “And... one pound forty for the tea, the sign said?” At James’ nod, he shook some coins out of his pocket. James held out his hand, world narrowing down in anticipation of the moment when Michael's fingertips would press against his cupped palm - and it was like the first touch all over again, lighting up his veins. “It was very good tea,” Michael said, drawing back. “I suppose I'll see you tonight, then?”

“Suppose so, yeah.” James’ grin had to a mile wide, but he didn’t care, because Michael's was undoubtedly wider. He ducked beneath the counter to plug up Michael’s battery purely to have something to with his hands; when he straightened up, Michael’s gaze was lingering, and he knew he’d been watched. James gave a ridiculous little wave - could have been a “well, hello, I see you too,” could have been a “bye, see you later”- the beauty, he thought, was in the adaptability. Michael laughed out loud, a helpless, surprised bark, before he turned and James got to watch him walk away.

He wished immediately that the shop were larger, that Michael had farther to go.

The tartan Nessie slithered close to James. He heard the scratchy slide of cloth upon wood, and ignored it; a second later, he felt a head-butt to the wrist, and ignored that as well. The Nessie was very far down the list of things he wanted to look at for the moment, at least until the door closed behind Michael completely. “Take the high road,” the Nessie said, then said again and again, continuing its campaign of head-butting all the while.

“Yeah, yeah,” James muttered. He wasn’t sure what “take the high road” was supposed to mean, but if it had anything to do with not staring at Michael’s arse when afforded the opportunity, it was an instruction James was physically incapable of following.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Alba17 for beta, and to Capricco and Luninosity!

Michael made three more visits to the shop for tea and electricity before raising the subject of James' afternoons off. James found he loved watching Michael put on his little show of being subtle: Michael could spout his excuses so smoothly, with none of the nervous stumbling that James himself would have fallen into, but his smile always gave him away. No matter what words Michael was saying, it was clear that what he was really talking about was seeing James again.

This time, Michael professed to wanting to find a fresh, unique view of the ruins of Urquhart Castle. Did James happen to have a favourite spot he wouldn't mind showing off? And time to do it one afternoon?

As it happened, James did. 

The next day they were treated to a rare, perfect early spring afternoon when the sky suddenly seemed to forget that it had been trying to spit ice just that morning. Now it was a fierce, triumphant blue, grey clouds scattered and defeated, and even though the breeze was strong, the sun was warm enough to keep it from cutting too keenly. James led the way as they hiked up a windswept hill. The higher they went, the more difficult conversation became, but James was pleased to see he wasn't puffing any harder than Michael, who with those long legs was probably only doing half as much work.

"There," James said when they reached the top, gesturing broadly with his arm. The castle stood below on a headland at the water's edge. It had been one of Scotland’s largest fortifications, and still was, even in its decay. What remained was a crumbling tower and a handful of ruined walls that refused to be worn away, determined to defend and protect for centuries to come.

“Fantastic," Michael breathed. He didn’t raise his camera, but simply stood looking, eyes narrowed. The wind lifted Michael's hair, playing with the strands as if testing his concentration. It slipped in over the collar of James' jacket, whispering against his skin, making James wonder for a moment just how warm Michael's hands would feel laced together behind James' neck, thumbs heavy on either side of his jaw.

He pushed that line of thought aside. "What I like is how if you angle yourself just right, you can get a view of the castle without the visitors' centre and carpark and all that," James said. He demonstrated, leading Michael into position with a hand to his elbow, and Michael went so easily with him that James cupped the other elbow as well. "Like this," James said, shifting Michael's weight one more inch. The leather of Michael's jacket was soft and slightly sun-warmed under his hands, comfortable to the touch.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Michael said, sounding entranced. "It makes it so easy to imagine how it would have been - watchmen on the ramparts, warriors at the gates."

"Exactly, yeah." James had sketched the history of the castle as he knew it on the hike up, with the disclaimer that he was up from Glasgow himself, and not any sort of native Highland guide. It had turned quickly into a conversation about the film _Braveheart_ \- a dissection, really, because they'd already discovered they had a common obsession with film, and more than that, a shared joy in picking apart all the ways they worked and ways they didn't. Now James laughed a little, dropping his hands. It had begun to sink in that Michael would have a much easier time taking photos if James weren't holding his elbows hostage. "You make a brilliant windbreak, by the way, thank you for that."

Michael turned quickly enough to make James rock back on his heels. “You’re cold?”

“Not really, no. I only said that to explain all the handsiness.” And oh, James might be in danger of becoming addicted to the way Michael's eyes squinted up when he smiled like that - as if his mouth was taking over his whole face, and everything else had to get out of the way to make room.

Michael suddenly declared that he was hungry, which made the next order of business choosing a nice sheltered spot to eat their lunch. No coincidence there, James thought, touched by the gesture and amused by the transparency of it. They settled down in the lee of a crumbling boulder, its craggy face softened by a beard of green moss. The view was just as good from here; below them the loch stretched like a long crooked finger, or perhaps the tentacle of something sinuous, something at home in the deep.

From his bag Michael produced a square of plastic, then a sturdy army blanket to spread on top of that. James supposed these were standard parts of Michael’s gear. It was easy to picture Michael lying on them in one place for hours, waiting for the right moment, the right lighting, the perfect shot; he carried himself with a sort of contained grace that spoke of a deep well of patience. James found the idea of that patience, and most certainly the way Michael embodied it, as attractive as it was foreign. He couldn't see it in himself, or recognise it in his own instincts.

Maybe the universe had known what it was doing when it chose him for its dogsbody. James had always felt at his best when he was in motion, and sitting around his grandparents' house with a degree that he didn't know how to use, he'd been listless, becalmed. Now that quiet was rare in his life, he could appreciate it as something to be savoured, rather than endured.

"I've got ham, turkey, cheese, and egg," James said, rummaging around in his rucksack. The sandwiches had come from the refrigerated case at Killian's, and before that, off a lorry that came down from Inverness twice a week. He'd brought apples from the shop as well, and bottles of water. "What do you like?" 

"Whatever you don't." James raised an eyebrow, attempting to convey _chivalrous, but unhelpful_ with his expression. “All right, except for the egg,” Michael said. "Whenever I have to eat one of those I feel like it's some sort of punishment from God."

James snorted. "You get a lot of egg mayonnaise sandwiches forced on you?"

Michael teetered a hand back and forth. "It happens. Bridal showers, christenings... special occasion photography pays the bills, but the catering isn't always to my taste."

"It can be worse when people carry in food. Chocolate courgette cake at a wake - now there's a punishment from God."

Michael looked properly appalled. "Why would anyone do that to mourners? Why would anyone do that to _chocolate_?"

"Those were precisely my questions," James said grimly. Living with elderly people meant attending a steady stream of friends' and acquaintances' funerals, and thus, quite a few church hall horrors. He put the egg sandwich aside and gestured to the remaining three. "Now go on, pick."

Eventually Michael went for the ham sandwich, but only after making doubly certain James didn't want it. With their backs to the boulder, and the brush of Michael's shoulder competing with the scenery for James' attention, they tucked into the food. A comfortable silence fell, punctuated by the whip of the wind and the high, cheerful call of kestrels soaring over the water.

And those were real, living birds, the sort that would never say a word to him. James and Michael were more alone than they had ever been, just two people in a world of hills and sky, no plush toys, no ceramics, no gallery of onlookers. James had ripped the labels off the water bottles before they'd set out - no illustrated stag to raise its head from its river and offer opinions - and he'd long ago given up wearing shirts depicting anything with a face. When your clothes started talking to you, there was no getting away without tearing them off, and the situations in which that was appropriate were regrettably limited.

If it so happened that his fingers itched to tear at Michael's shirt - a marine blue waffle-weave jersey, soft-looking and blessedly plain - the motive would be something different.

Of course, they weren't completely alone, because James had money in his pocket and he assumed the same was true of Michael. But the queen hadn’t deigned to speak to him from the front of a pound coin yet, nor a Lion Rampant or Welsh Dragon from the back; James imagined he would hear from his currency in the case of a severe emergency, but only then. If there were imminent danger to Michael today, James believed he would know it, but he was optimistic that there wouldn't be. _Take the high road_ , the Nessie had said, and they had. They were on top of the world.

“You’re a slow eater,” Michael said. Startled out of his thoughts, James glanced over and saw Michael polishing an apple on his shirt. The ham sandwich had been reduced to a few crumbs on the scrubby grass.

“What of it?” James said, mock-aggressive. He took another bite and swallowed, cheddar sharp on his tongue.

Michael shrugged. “Just an observation. A detail. I like details,” he said, rolling the apple in his palm. “They make a picture complete. Turn reality into art, and art into reality.”

"And my eating is which?" James was teasing until it fully hit him that Michael wasn't, and that whichever Michael had meant was more compliment than he'd been prepared for. He felt himself flush, and wondered how obvious it was; perhaps it could pass for the wind colouring his cheeks. “Or do you need to wait and see how I do with the apple, first?”

“Hmm, maybe I should,” Michael said, eyes twinkling, then took a crisp bite of his own. James stared, mildly fascinated, as nearly a third of the fruit disappeared into his mouth.

Talking to Michael was like watching a summer thunderstorm from an enclosed porch: comfortable, perpetually fascinating, and shot through with moments of electricity that sang along James' spine. Sometimes it was the voice, sometimes it was a flash of that smile, and sometimes, like now, as Michael ate, it was the quiet charge in those eyes. Michael wasn't speaking, but there was no such thing as silence when he looked like that; words didn't need voice to hum in the air, thrilling with promise.

James swallowed. "You'd better get started on your photos, hadn't you? No telling how much longer the weather'll hold out."

"You’re right, of course." With his apple already down to the core, Michael raised his camera, then lowered it, a look of unaccountable shiftiness stealing over his expression. "Would you mind - you can say no. Would you mind if I took some of you?" James felt something crossing his face - shock, he supposed, because for all Michael had let his interest ring clear as a bell, for all it had to make sense that he, as a photographer, would express it like this, James still hadn’t expected the question. His expression must have alarmed Michael, because Michael rushed to add, "Truly, you can say no, I simply -"

"It's fine." James wiped his mouth, did a sweep of his teeth with his tongue. "Go for it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure," James said, and when Michael hesitated, gestured for him to lift the camera. As Michael did, James instinctively shifted his gaze to its lens. "I mean, people take pictures of us every day, don't they? In their minds. And they can keep them as long as they like, and their minds can alter them however they like, and we have no control over it. So something being on film doesn't bother me. It's almost a gift, because I can look at it too, if I want, and see what the world sees.... What?"

Because Michael had begun clicking while James was talking, but now his finger stuttered on the button. "Nothing," he said. "I was about to say, you've given it a lot of thought, but then I remembered the philosophy degree."

James laughed while Michael's camera clicked and clicked. "It's more than a piece of paper, it's a way of life."

That was the truth. James had spent a lot of time thinking about the way the world worked, trying to make sense of it, understand it. First as a boy at Catholic school, later as an eighteen year old at uni, reading religion and thinking seriously about seminary. There'd been a shift by nineteen, after a boyfriend or two, but while the coursework had moved towards philosophy, the questioning had remained.

Then James had come to Loch Ness, inanimate objects had started talking to him, and he'd been forced to accept that there were things in the world he'd never understand, or go mad trying.

Michael's camera had a complicated telescopic lens, and James watched him at work, fingers twisting delicately, with the precision of expertise. With grace, he thought, back to that word again, grace so natural that even as James dwelled on the span of those fingers, he thought of nothing so man-made as cathedral arches, but of slim, strong branches, weaving a path to sunlight.

There was a little choked noise. "Jesus, your smile," Michael said, still from behind the camera. "I know they say ‘penny for your thoughts,’ but I'd pay far more than a penny just now."

"Laughing at myself, that's all." And at just how fanciful he could be when properly inspired. James ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’d meant what he said, the camera didn't bother him at all, but those sorts of direct compliments were a different story.

"If you think you look silly," Michael said quietly, "you are very, very wrong. Here." He pressed a button, and handed the camera to James set on playback mode, James' face filling the screen. The focus was on his mouth; he'd been caught in the act of smiling, lips curving carelessly, quirking a little higher on one side than the other. His eyes were dancing above, almost out of shot. It was a picture of a person lost in a moment, living and breathing amusement, attraction, and the simple pleasure of being in a beautiful place on a beautiful day.

It was like looking at a stranger. 

Gently, as if afraid James might spook, Michael slipped an arm under James' to tap a button on the camera. More photos flashed by, variations on a theme: himself talking, laughing, smiling, abandoned to it all. The person in his mirror never looked like that. In its absence, James could recognise his usual wariness for what it was, a lingering tightness beneath every expression, as part of him forever waited for the next voice to pipe up, the next shoe to drop.

"You're so natural," Michael murmured. "Just look at you."

"I am looking," James said, equally soft. As well as feeling the breeze ruffling his hair, the sun on his face, and the warmth of Michael's shoulder pressed to his own. Perfect things, fleeting things - sooner or later, a Highland storm would come along; sooner or later, Michael would pack up his tent and go - he could worry, or he could enjoy them just as they were.

James turned, taking in Michael's sharp inhalation, his hurried move to set the camera aside, the widening of his eyes as James lifted a hand to his cheek. More fleeting, perfect things, just like the first scratch of stubble under James' fingers, then the brush of softness as he slid his hand into Michael's hair, pulling him down.

He learned Michael's smile the way it begged to be known, feeling his way along the contours, mapping every inch by touch and taste. Michael was an equally eager learner, drawing kisses from one corner of James' mouth to the other, his palms cradling James' face, the weight of his hands every bit as warm as James had imagined.

There on the hillside, alone but for the birds wheeling above, it wasn't as if that weight were tying James down to earth; instead, it was as if he and Michael were tethered together, free to fly if they chose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Capriccio! ♥

James scrabbled desperately along his bedside table, feeling for the familiar shape of his alarm clock - long neck, long tail, and a fat body in the middle that held the digital display. He got his hands around it and held on, trying to get his breath back enough to ask it to _say that again_. He'd bolted upright in bed when the Nessie's voice had invaded his sleep. His dreams were fast dissipating, like smoke before a sword, and the fact that they were borne of memories of blue sky and warm hands did nothing to help James keep them. This felt like the only reality: James shivering in his attic bedroom, his only point of contact with the universe something inhuman and inexplicable.

Nothing like a companion. Nothing like a friend.

The clock’s voice was as high-pitched as the ring of its alarm, and supremely testy as it repeated itself. "Moonlight serenade." 

"Right," James said, throwing off the duvet and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Where?" He slammed his feet into shoes, no pause for socks, and threw a jacket over his sleep clothes. When it didn't answer, he snatched up the clock again. _"Where?"_

"Moonlight serenade."

As creaky as the old building was, slipping out silently wasn’t an option, so James went for speed over stealth, rushing down two flights of uncarpeted stairs. Then through the shop and out the back door, where he stood on the stoop, clock still in his hands. “Come on, right, left, a clue, _please_ ,” he said, shaking it. "Is this him? Michael?"

No reply. Almost growling his frustration, James took off at a run, first through the small garden where Mr. Killian liked to try to grow marrows, then - _take the high road_ \- up the hill beyond, into the woods. 

He realised he'd better start singing.

There wasn't enough light. The moon had risen but the clouds were thick, and James pushed through the undergrowth hardly knowing where each foot would fall. "Now it's Istanbul not Constantinople, no you can't go back to Constantinople, been a long time gone, Constantinople...." It was hard to sing clearly with his breath juddering with every step, but he did the best he could, the song as frenetic as his pace. If he mixed up the lyrics or sang the same verse over and over, would it matter? Would it make a difference?

Everyone's life felt this way sometimes, James knew, a blind, directionless run through the dark. But for most people that was a metaphor. James got to live it firsthand, feel the lash of branches against his arms, the roots tripping his feet. 

The first two times he fell, it was nothing more than a stumble, a small break in his stride. The third time, he pitched forward into a gully and rolled down, too fast to stop himself until slamming into a tree trunk did that for him.

He'd managed to hold onto the clock. James probably should have dropped it and used his hands to protect his head, because it was ringing in a way that promised a hell of an ache later on. Or maybe that was the clock's alarm? He thwacked it with his hand as if it were morning and needed shutting up. Nope, definitely his head. Now the Nessie was glaring as if it would like to bite the fuck out of his hand if it could. James hoped it couldn't.

"All right," James said, wincing as he moved to sit up against the tree. "I know you never actually told me to run. I acknowledge that was all my own daft idea." He looked up, the movement lancing pain through his head, and saw the clouds had rolled back from the gibbous moon. He took a deep breath, and launched into _Yellow Submarine_.

Three rounds of the chorus later, he had his answer. Tonight, the person who needed him wasn't Michael.

A boy stood at the top of the small ridge James had tumbled down. He was slim and brown-skinned, and he was either tall for his age or had a particularly young face; James guessed the former, that he was ten or eleven. His cheeks were wet, but when he spoke, his voice was steady, as if he were determined to be done with tears.

"Heard you singing," he said, his Scouse accent strong enough to be recognisable from those three words alone. "Are you drunk?"

"No, not drunk," James said. "May have taken a bit of a head injury, though. I was walking, and I fell." 

The boy held himself as if he were ready to run, and good for him, because James knew he must seem shady as hell. If the kid was smart enough to be wary, then the fact that he'd approached James at all meant he must be feeling desperate. Was he lost, or a runaway? James had been mistrusted by people he'd been trying to help before, but this moment seemed particularly delicate, a soap-bubble resting gently in his hands. He couldn't help if he couldn't win this kid's confidence, but the boy's instincts were good, and the last thing he wanted to do was teach the kid to ignore them in favour of listening to a stranger.

Deciding that asking for information could make the kid feel threatened, James gave it instead. “I'm James. I work in a shop just down there." He pointed. "On the main road."

The boy snapped his head around immediately at that, following James' finger. “The main road's that way?”

“Yes. It's not far.” The boy seemed ready to crumple with relief. Lost, then, up from Liverpool with his family and lost. But he probably hadn't been missing for too long, or there would have been an alert out. Listening to the Nessie had put James in position to save a family a lot of unhappiness; James just needed to get this right. Carefully, he added, “I don't have my mobile with me, but if you wanted to ring someone, you could use the phone at the shop."

"Got mine," the boy said, and there it was, clenched in his hand, "but I can't get a signal." His voice wobbled. James guessed that however lost he'd been to start with, he'd made it ten times worse running around trying to get enough bars to make a call.

"Yeah, they're shit up here." James paused. "Ah. Pretend I didn't just curse at you?"

The boy shrugged. "I've heard worse."

"Said worse, I'm guessin'," James said, and was pleased by the grin he got in return.

Leading the kid down to the shop was going to mean standing up. James' head wasn't thrilled at the prospect. He got as far as his knees before he came over all shaky and cold, and he paused for a second, sucking in air.

"Can you walk? Or do you want me to go and ring emergency services for you?" The boy's voice seemed closer than before. Blinking, James realised he'd come down the hill and was hovering a few feet away, biting his lip.

"No, let's try this walking thing." James shoved the Nessie clock into the pocket of his jacket - hopefully the kid hadn't noticed it, he didn't feel like trying to explain why he took his alarm clock for walks - and latched onto the tree. "Listen, just in case I pass out or something, go straight that way, right down the hill, and you'll end up in the back garden of my shop. There's an old man asleep upstairs, you may have to make fair bit of noise to get him to come down, but do it and he'll look after you. All right?"

"Yeah," the boy said, sounding worried. "Yeah, okay."

But it went as well as James could have hoped. He didn't pass out and he didn't throw up, two major wins, and he held his balance most of the way down the hill. When he did stumble, there was a small hand under his elbow like a shot, and James leaned into it and said, "Sorry," before he said, "thanks."

The boy just nodded, eyes blown wide with panic, and the determination not to leave him alone out here again was what kept James upright more than anything. 

Soon enough, though, they were sitting together on the shop's front stoop, the boy - Samir, James gathered from his end of the phone conversation - munching on chocolate biscuits while waiting for his dad. They made enough noise in the process to wake Mr. Killian, and he came out in a bedraggled navy dressing gown, leaning on his cane, his white beard even wilder and woollier than usual. Once brought up to speed, he gave Samir another packet of biscuits for the road, and James and Samir matching hair-rufflings that did no favours for James' head.

Still, he was glad Mr. Killian was there. It meant James could drift, and let the old man and the young boy talk about fishing (Mr. Killian's passion), F1 racing (Samir's, apparently), and camping (Samir's dad's, and it sounded like the whole night's trouble had begun with Samir leaving the tent to take a slash). It was possible he misheard some of it. James' head really fucking hurt. But some judicious prodding hadn't turned up a lump, and he wasn't dizzy anymore, so he took those for good signs.

Mr. Killian and Samir were deep into the virtues of Jammie Dodgers versus Hobnobs when the right pair of headlights came up the road. Samir's dad rushed from the car, not bothering to close the door, not saying anything but his son's name until he had him in his arms. He kept Samir tucked firmly under his arm during the thank yous and handshakes that followed, and then they were gone, and the night was quiet again.

James set about locking up the shop. He knew what it felt like to be watched, perhaps better than anyone, and he felt it now, an itch on the back of his neck. A quick glance around proved it wasn't any of the Nessies. They were asleep, right down to the very last thimble and decorative magnet - content, James supposed, with the job he'd done.

That meant Mr. Killian, then. The old man's night vision was terrible, but indoors his eyes were still fairly sharp, and when James turned back from sliding the bolt home on the door, he found himself under steady, silent scrutiny. Mr. Killian nodded to himself before beginning to move about the store, putting together a makeshift icepack using cling film and ice from one of the bags they sold for people's coolers. 

"Hospital tonight, or doctor tomorrow?"

"Nothing tonight," James said cagily, accepting the icepack and hissing at the first touch of cold to his temple. Mr. Killian didn't appear to care for this answer, still steadily regarding James from behind his thick spectacles, so James added, "Hospital means Inverness, and getting someone to drive me." Michael would, his brain supplied. Michael would, and will probably be upset when he finds out you _didn't_ ask him to. "No point, is it, when the clinic will be open in a couple of hours?"

"Hmm." 

James knew that 'hmm': Mr. Killian thought the logic was sound, but that didn't mean he had to be impressed by it. But James had another card yet to play, and it was a good one. "Who knows better about my body, anyway? Some doctor, or me that's living in it?"

"Throwing my own words back at me, are you?" 

"Suppose I may have heard them a time or two before, yeah."

A grin cracked Mr. Killian's face. "Good on you, boy. Good on you."

It was a painful trudge up the stairs. James was slow, trying not to be obvious about needing the rail's support, and Mr. Killian was slower. It made James regret bringing up driving earlier: Mr. Killian couldn't take James to Inverness, not with his hip, and that had to be bothering him. He had to feel like he was letting James, or maybe worse, James' granddad, down.

When James pulled Mr. Killian into a hug outside his bedroom door, he meant it as an apology and a thank you. But the moment his arms circled Mr. Killian's shoulders, the moment Mr. Killian's hand rose to pat James on the back, he knew it was more than that. It was a connection, person to person, forged because people cared.

Whatever force of the universe it was that spoke through James' alarm clock that night had obviously wanted Samir found and reunited with his family. But did it care about how Samir had felt out there, alone and brave and scared, did it care about his dad's gut-churning panic? Or was it all about some cosmic balance, a certain number of rights to balance the world's many wrongs?

But this, right now: thin shoulders under his arms, a shaky, gentle hand pressed to the back of his head, old-fashioned shaving soap filling his nose. This was real, it mattered, and it felt good.

*

His head ached horribly, and James pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead like it would help - it didn't - and shut his eyes. He imagined each pulse of pain as a wave, dark on the stony shore of the loch, inexorable, and he rode them one after the other, thinking about nothing else, doing nothing else, rolling forward, cresting, and dragging back.

The bell over the shop door jangled, and James screwed his eyes closed even tighter, breathing through it before greeting his customer. "Mornin'," he said, and as he opened his eyes his automatic welcoming smile grew wider. It was Michael coming in, wearing jeans and a grey henley, the edges of something thermal and soft-looking peeking out at the neck and bottom hem.

Michael's eyes changed in an instant, a cheerful softness flickering out as concern made his every feature sharp and focused. James knew what he looked like this morning; he'd sat up in front of the mirror for the rest of the night, watching his own eyes, forcing himself to keep them open. As dawn crept in, he'd practised the smile that he thought looked most reassuring, and the angle of his head that kept the worst of the bruising in shadow.

It didn't appear to be working.

Michael didn't speak at first, reaching for James' chin and cupping it in his large hand, fingertips coming to rest behind his ear. He tilted James' head toward the light, and James closed his eyes again, partly because Michael's concern was too piercing, this close, and partly because the movement was enough to flood him with fresh pain. He breathed out through his nose, hard, and apparently Michael noticed, because his fingers tightened reflexively, then immediately loosened, as if afraid he’d done damage.

“What happened?” Michael's voice was quiet and gentle, yet obviously leashed; something suggested that he would soon be a force to be reckoned with if James’ story hinted at a villain.

James shrugged. “Long story. The short version is that my head isn't actually harder than a tree trunk, no matter how stubborn he may say I am." James jerked a thumb across the room, where in a rocking chair next to the gas furnace, Mr. Killian was snoring lightly, chin bobbing against his chest. The old man had insisted on coming downstairs for James' shift that morning, James had been equally insistent about not going to the clinic, and the stalemate had continued until Mr. Killian nodded off. Which didn't actually mean a victory on James' part, because Mr. Killian's hip would be even stiffer than usual when he got up, and James was already feeling guilty about that. 

"I have time."

 _You saw the young fella out the window, I take it?_ had been Mr. Killian's assumption, and James made use of that now. He'd woken in the night, and seen what looked like a small person moving between the trees; he'd gone to check; he'd fallen and hit his head, but he'd brought the boy home. It was close to the truth. It was believable.

And it was nice to have an excuse to keep his eyes closed, to avoid looking at Michael while he lied.

"Oooh," came the voice of the tartan Nessie. "Oh my dearie, oh my goodness. Someone's feeling protective. Someone does _not_ like the idea of you sleeping alone." It slithered out from beside the till, looking incredibly smug for a plush animal.

James was off his game. It didn't even sink in that he'd broken his rule, that he'd pulled away to look down at the source of a voice only he could hear, until he realised Michael was calling his name. 

"James. _James_ ," Michael repeated sharply. "You said you were good with concussions. Do you have one?"

He jerked his head up to meet Michael's eyes, then winced, instantly regretting it. "I really don't think so. I'm not dizzy anymore, I'm not queasy, my head just aches. I did stay up the rest of the night to be on the safe side," he added, thinking to smooth the worry on Michael's brow, but the creases only deepened.

"Then it's past time you slept." Michael's glance slid past James. "Wouldn't you say so, sir?"

Yes, definitely off his game: James hadn't noticed that Mr. Killian was awake, and watching them from his chair with an attention rapt enough to rival the Nessie's. "I couldn't agree more, young man," Mr. Killian chimed in, quite obviously pleased at having been given the opening. "Past time indeed."

It wasn't just two against one, either. James had the distinct feeling the odds were far more stacked than that. The rubbery fishing lures and the stackable Nessie measuring cups (each green hump holding a different volume of liquid) and the ever-vigilant tartan Nessie were all silent, but they were awake, eyes bright and alert. It was natural that they wanted him to take care of himself, James supposed. They'd invested a lot of time and effort into him by now. They'd probably prefer not to start over with anyone new if they didn't have to.

"It's okay for you to sleep if someone's keeping an eye on you. I know that much," Michael said. He settled his hand over James' on the counter, the strong bones in his fingers promising security, capability, care. "Let me do that for you. Please."

Strange, how hard it was to say yes to help, when he was so used to giving it. But James was so tired, and he hurt, and when he closed his eyes to all the curious onlookers and sank deeper into the warm, steady contact of Michael's touch, he started to think that maybe it didn't have to be. James slid off his stool to the sound of the Nessie's satisfied humming, and let himself be led.


End file.
